The Shadow of Tomorrow
by BootsnHats
Summary: In the filthy, overcrowded city of Paris, a miasma of sickness spreads its tendrils down every alley and into every home. The Musketeer garrison is detailed to the gruesome work of collecting the bodies piling up in streets and houses. Inevitably, the Inseparables must fall as well. For one who hears the siren call of oblivion, this could be the honorable farewell.


_A/N: If you are a student of the Middle Ages and unable to suspend disbelief, this story is probably not one you will appreciate, since I've made free with the *facts* to make them fit my fiction set in 1630. The Sweating Sickness last appeared in Medieval Europe in the mid 1550s, so technically, this story couldn't have happened. But frankly, this is fiction, and I've resurrected the illness because it fit the needs of the story. If that bothers you, please feel free to use your delete button right now._

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><p><em>The Shadow of Tomorrow<em>

The stench was so hideous not even the perfume -sprinkled scarves they wore over nose and mouth, courtesy of Madame Bonacieux and Porthos, could prevail against it. The gutters of Paris were overflowing into the streets, offal rotted in the harsh, unrelenting sun, along with the corpses of the derelict and dispossessed. Athos imagined the constant buzzing of the swarming flies rising up on the stench to the gates of heaven, where St. Peter had closed those portals against all comers.

Commerce had ground to a halt with the advance of the sweating sickness. No farmer would venture into the markets; the bakeries and cafes were deserted by patrons and owners alike.

The Catholics blamed the Huguenots, the Huguenots blamed the Catholics, and both sides prayed for victory and defeat.

Paris was on its own. It would begin to eat itself if this disease did not run its course soon.

"That does it for this _quartier_." Athos removed his gauntlets, finger by finger, and pulled down the scarf, though he did not breathe too deeply. The leather crafters of Paris would make a fortune when the city was finally delivered from this plague. Death caked his gloves, his clothes, his boots – even his hat. He did not know if the reek of it could ever be completely removed. "We will convey this lot to the burial pit and we are done for the day."

The sinister sun was heading for the western rim of the city and they had been at this since shortly after dawn here in this _quartier_. Every house had borne the charcoaled mark of death, more often than not two, three and four slashes had adorned the lintel. Athos replaced the kerchief, for Aramis had bade them wear it whenever they left the garrison, just as he had bidden the captain to inform the king the bodies must be buried, not burned. No one knew how it spread, but spread it had, and with rapine rapidity. "Let's go."

Athos retrieved his patient steed, soothing the flicking ears with a quiet word as he stroked the sweat-lathered neck and watched d'Artagnan climb slowly back up to the driver's seat of the cart carrying their day's work. Hefting bodies was part of a soldier's job, but the filth and grime of this toil had seeped into Athos' soul, gnawing at his sanity like mice in a larder.

He was not alone; they were all sore in body and in spirit, but unlike many of the other companies, where bickering had become heated, flaring conflict in its wake, the Inseparables soldiered on, contemplatively quiet but drawn together in solidarity, each glad for the comradeship of the others on this difficult road.

Aramis leaned against his horse, too tired even to raise his foot to the stirrup, let alone mount with his usual springing leap.

Porthos, passing him to untie his own horse, gave a boost up and followed suit, swinging into the saddle with something less than his usual verve.

And then they were on their slow, winding way, letting their tired mounts negotiate the narrow alleys and lanes at their own pace. Athos paced behind, unduly annoyed, he knew, by the shrill squeal of the cart wheels bumping through the ruts and rivers of garbage. Serge's cheese grater could not have shredded his nerves more effectively. He tugged his hat lower to hide the shadow of the grimace he was certain was reflected in his eyes.

It was three quarters of an hour before they were waved through the city gates. Another quarter hour before they came to the end of their gruesome journey - huge open pits where bodies were stacked like cordwood, growing larger by the day. No farewells or family to mourn, no words of grace, no prayers, not even a stick of wood to mark the new graves, much less proper headstones. Perhaps this was God's judgment upon a city turning to depravity like Sodom and Gomorrah. Certain it was no fingers would be prying open the gates of heaven from this godforsaken place.

"We are detailed to the king and queen tomorrow," Athos relayed wearily. "There is to be a hunt. Be sure to bathe when we get home, and make certain your respective laundresses, if they are still alive and working, have clean clothes for you. Tréville wants no whiff of this miasma borne to their highnesses."

d'Artagnan, perhaps the most affected of their band, as he had not yet experienced the carnage of whole scale battle, slid down from the driver's seat, untied his horse from the rear and mounted up as well. The silence of their journey back to the garrison was broken only by the sound of their horses hooves beating a rhythmic tattoo against the hard-baked ground. If it did not rain soon and wipe this miasma from the air, all but the children of Paris would be dead, for the disease did not seem to affect the very young.

They drew within sight of the gate again, and the hum began, growing louder as they entered the city, pacing through uninhabited streets. Day and night a constant moan of despair vibrated the airless capital, wailing spreading from house to house with each visit from the angel of death. Helplessness was turning to anger, and where there was energy, anger to violence. Already riots had broken out in the _arrondissements _housing the upper class; those of the Musketeers and Red Guards not detailed to collecting the deceased were patrolling the wider avenues of the Place de la Concorde to the Place de l'Etoile.

That would be the Inseparables next duty, after their rotation as royal watchers for the next seven day. Tréville was doing the best he could, attempting to pace the Musketeers so the responsibilities that fell to their garrison were shared by all and all benefited from the change of rotations. But neither the Cardinal's Red Guard nor the Musketeer garrison were untouched by this sickness. Soldiers were no more immune to the illness than the mass of the populace; they just ignored it a bit longer, and subsequently dropped in their tracks.

Half the Red Guards were down with symptoms, or recovering, while less than a quarter of the Musketeer garrison had succumbed so far. Aramis chalked it up to a better environment. Many of the Musketeers had served in the army at some point, and were by comparison, a far more disciplined lot than the Red Guards. And it showed in their living quarters.

Tréville did not tolerate slovenly disorder and was, as were many commissioned officers, a scrounger by nature. He made certain his battalion was well-fed, well-housed, and well-cared for in general, whether the king's treasurer remembered to pay them or not.

There were no flourishing dismounts as the four rode into the courtyard. Athos noticed Tréville looked them over thoroughly; he could feel the worry pouring off the man. A good leader did that – worried about those under his command, just as a good landowner took care of his people.

"No end sight, sir," Aramis reported, slapping the dust from his hat, though it merely created more little devil dervishes in the dry, dusty courtyard. At any other time, they would have watered down the area to keep the dust under control. But they were nearing the probability of having to ration water, in which case the wells of Paris would have to be guarded like the queen's jewels; yet another duty that would have to be parsed among the dwindling population of militia. If it came to that, they would likely have to start conscripting civilians again.

Athos seconded the report. "It grows worse. We collected a third again, what we collected yesterday."

"Get some rest," Tréville ordered, keeping his thoughts off his face. There was little anyone could do, but frustration simmered nonetheless. He turned abruptly and disappeared into his office.

The four below shared a sympathetic glance on behalf of their commander. This was the very definition of between a rock and a hard place.

ttt

They broke their fast at the communal table in the courtyard the next morning, the usual friendly bantering conspicuously missing, nor was the usual amount of food consumed. Exhaustion was taking its toll.

Athos drew on a different pair of gauntlets and picked up a different hat as well. He had the resources to afford such things, the others did not, but no one remarked the change.

Not because they didn't notice, but because, individually, they had recognized the toll this business was taking on their leader and chose not to add to his burden. Athos already hauled around a shipload of unresolved cargo courtesy of his un-dead wife, plague take her wherever she was at the moment.

"If no one is planning to eat, perhaps we should depart."

"No." Aramis reached for the platter holding slabs of meat and dished it out. "I know we're all tired, but we need to eat. This – whatever it is –" he waved the knife he'd used to stab the beef, "attacks the least fit. We need to keep to as regular a routine as possible, that means eating and sleeping with regularity as well." He sawed a chunk off his own piece and popped it in his mouth.

Across the table, d'Artagnan watched him, head propped on a gauntleted hand. "Really?" He blinked and inhaled a long breath. Realizing he'd drawn every eye, he straightened quickly. "I'll pass, thank you," he dumped the hunk of beef back onto the communal platter and took a roll, though all he did was shred it on his plate. "I'm not hungry," he said tiredly, avoiding the accountability stare Aramis had speared him with. "It's too hot to eat."

"Hungry or not," Porthos was halfway through his own serving, "you still need to eat. You'll melt away to skin and bones, else, youngling. Y're halfway there already."

"Aramis is right," Athos agreed, though even his tone of voice carried reluctance. "We must keep to as regular a routine as much as possible." He eyed the beef on his own plate, wondering if he had the strength to even cut the damn thing. Like d'Artagnan, he had no appetite, but clearly saw the wisdom of Aramis' directive. "I will ask Serge to serve lighter fare until this heat has broken; in the meantime, you will eat what is put before you."

"I'm not a child, Athos." d'Artagnan, head in hand again, drew a finger through the flaked bread and touched it to his tongue.

"Then stop acting like one. I will not tolerate a liability while we are on duty with our monarchs. If you are not well, say so, and I will make arrangements to see that you are cared for while we are gone."

d'Artagnan straightened again, avoiding Athos' troubled look by meeting Aramis' assessing gaze with a hostile glare. "I am not sick. I'm just not hungry. You said it starts with anxiety and cold chills; I am neither anxious nor chilled, only tired and hot."

Aramis' eyes narrowed. "We are all hot and tired," the healer averred. "I am only asking that you consider the consequences should your indomitable will fail you. You cannot keep this illness at bay with audacity and charm, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes, but took another roll and ate a few bites of it, washing it down with the ale Serge set out every morning. "Satisfied?" He banged the tankard down on the table and rose, stepping over the bench without disturbing Athos, who sat beside him. "I'll get the horses."

"Is he alright, do you think?" Athos inquired of their practitioner of the healing arts.

Aramis shrugged. "I don't _see_ anything more untoward than the exhaustion we all carry, but then, with d'Artagnan, you never know. He will go until he cannot stand up."

"I don't think he'd put the rest of us in jeopardy if he thought himself ill. He'd go off on his own and find a hole to burrow down until it was past." Porthos sopped up the juices left on his plate with another roll. "But we'd best keep an eye on him if he _is_ coming down with it." He rose as well, picked up his tankard and drained it. "I'll go 'elp with the horses." Taking his plate and tankard, he disappeared inside to the communal wash basin, dunked his eating utensils in the hot, soapy water Aramis was insisting everything be washed in, air-dried them with a few shakes and stowed them away in the slot assigned to him, then headed for the stables.

"Don't let the puppy out of your sight, today," Athos instructed Aramis, as he rose and followed Porthos' example.

Aramis finished his own ale and, with his companions scattered, crossed his arms on the table and put his head down for a moment. His skills had been in constant demand since the onset of this sickness. From the very beginning, whenever he had not been on duty, he'd been out among the general populace lending whatever aid he could. Which was why he knew the symptoms so well.

It began with a sudden and intense attack of anxiety, followed shortly by cold chills, headache and cramping pains in combination with great exhaustion. Following this stage, sometimes very quickly, but rarely more than three or four hours past, the sweating stage began. Abruptly, sweat began to pour in rivers off the body, usually accompanied by a great feeling of heat and intense thirst, often with delirium and rapid pulse. If the individual passed through a night and a day of this, they usually recovered. Most who lost the battle succumbed within a few hours of the sweating stage.

The only good thing about it was they usually passed quietly, without a struggle, never really coming out of the delirium. The sheer number of deaths Aramis had witnessed, though, was weighing down his normally ebullient spirit. The poet was experiencing each loss spiritually, while the physician struggled with not being able to do enough.

A hand on his shoulder roused him to Athos' concerned features shimmering like a mirage before his eyes. "Did I fall asleep?" he mumbled, rubbing at his bleary eyesight.

"Are _you_ unwell?" Athos inquired in an undertone, his glance darting around the empty court yard. "They are coming," he added, hearing the horses hooves clop clopping toward the entrance.

"No, I am not unwell, either. Just beyond weary."

"You have been the most overworked of all of us," Athos said with feeling, "take the day, go back to bed, Aramis. No one will fault you for it."

"No, I would only lie abed worrying." Aramis dropped his head in his hands. "Just give me a minute."

Athos, leaning over with a hand on the table by his friend, paused only a moment more, then with a sigh, pushed off and went to head off the other two.

"Aramis will join us shortly, mount up," he ordered, taking the reins of his horse from d'Artagnan, who looked at him askance. "Worry accomplishes nothing but an additional wearing of the spirit."

"Nonetheless," d'Artagnan's glance strayed beyond the horses into the courtyard, "we worry. Is _Aramis_ unwell?"

"No more than you or I. Mount up; the Cardinal's guards will be anxious to go off duty."

"I don't give a damn about the Cardinal's guards," Porthos stated emphatically. "Aramis has had the heaviest work load of any of us," he added, unconsciously echoing Athos. "Tréville won't begrudge him a day of rest."

"Except he will not take it and I will not force him any more than I would force either of you. Now mount up, if you will, so that we are ready to leave when he does join us."

d'Artagnan obeyed without further comment. Porthos held his ground, and Aramis' horse, until their comrade came, weaving a bit, to join them. Cuffing him gently, Porthos all but lifted him into the saddle.

"You sure you're up to this?" Porthos handed over the reins doubtfully. "I'd feel better if you and the puppy stayed back today. Ow." He shot a squint-eyed look at d'Artagnan, sitting his horse close enough to toe his elder in the ribs and not particularly gently.

"Don't call me that."

"How else are we supposed to show our affection, pup?" Porthos cuffed the youth as well, with considerably less tenderness than he'd smacked Aramis.

"If we are done being demonstrative, may we get on with this day's work?" Athos asked drily, urging his horse forward.

His three companions fell into line behind.

ttt

The forest was marginally cooler than the city, though the distinction for men in leather was hardly discernible. The queen, not long from childbed, had chosen to remain behind, beneath a silken canopy where the royal flags hung limply in the stifling heat.

Athos had detailed d'Artagnan and Aramis to the king, since sitting a saddle on a moving horse would likely be easier than standing endlessly, not to mention leaving Aramis _almost_ alone with the queen was a very bad idea.

The queen sat upon the cushioned chair with her head back and eyes closed, beads of royal perspiration glistening at her temples and rolling slowly down the expanse of uncovered décolletage. "It was never this hot in Madrid," she said, employing an ostrich feather fan languidly. "One would think, given the latitude of Spain, and Madrid's landlocked state, that would not be so."

"I cannot remember heat like this in my lifetime," one of her ladies-in-waiting agreed, dabbing the queen's brow with a linen handkerchief. "Perhaps Your Majesty would prefer to return to the palace?"

"No, it is stiflingly hot inside, though perhaps I should have brought Louis. His wet nurse thought it would be better if he stayed though, and I succumbed, as usual, to her pleadings." Anne took the handkerchief with gracious irritation and dabbed at her chest. "I know offspring are expected to stay with their nurses, but that was not the way I was raised, and I do not wish to raise my own children in this manner." She eyed the Musketeer standing to her left at the front edge of the pavilion. "Were you raised apart from your parents, Athos?" Despite her youth, she was an extremely wise and clever woman. Her curiosity about this quartet knew no bounds, and particularly about one, but Anne was careful to keep her interrogatories general and gentle.

Athos did not turn his head, his eyes moving ceaselessly along the forest's verge. "I was, Your Majesty."

"Did you know them at all?"

The Musketeer shifted uncomfortably, though only internally. "I knew their faces."

The curt response was barely within bounds of royal protocol, but the queen was far less concerned with etiquette than her spouse. "Knew?" she queried, all kindness, "They passed?"

"They are no longer living."

"Were you young then?" Her Royal Highness probed lightly. She saw his shoulders hunch and immediately backed off. "I am sorry, you do not have answer that of course."

There was a long pause, and Porthos glanced at his fellow Musketeer before returning his own gaze to the forest.

"I was about the same age as Your Highness, when you were married by proxy, Your Majesty."

"That must have been a terrible tragedy then, for surely you were far too young to be thrust into the role of Comte de le Flere." A flutter of fans around her informed her this was not common knowledge, as she had assumed, but like any good general, she soldiered on. "What happened? Did you have siblings?"

Athos told himself to be thankful she was not grilling him about Aramis, despite his discomfort. "An acc…"

The thunder of hooves pounding the earth brought them all to attention, Athos and Porthos with weapons in hand, as behind them the queen rose, along with her ladies-in-waiting. "Something has happened," the queen asserted. "No one would ride like that otherwise in this heat."

Horse and rider, and an extra passenger slumped before the rider, burst from the forest. The horse was reined up short so they slid to a stop before the pavilion.

d'Artagnan, for a moment only, could not straighten either himself or Aramis, who rode before him.

Athos grabbed the loose bridle as Porthos reached to take Aramis.

"No," d'Artagnan muttered, attempting to regather the reins he had lost. "Just stopped to tell you I'm on the way to the barracks. Can't expose the queen."

"You must take him to the palace," the queen commanded.

"Your pardon, Your Majesty." Athos ducked under the neck of the lathered horse, so he stood between the advancing queen and d'Artagnan's encumbrance. "d'Artagnan is correct, Aramis must be taken to the garrison, we cannot risk endangering your majesties further."

"Then you must take us back to the palace and return to your companions." Anne immediately gathered her skirts and headed for her horse, beckoning her ladies to follow. "Who is left with the king?"

"Bastien and Francios remain with the king, they are not far behind. I think Aramis broke his arm, he took a bad fall."

"Aramis?" Athos reached as if to examine the limb d'Artagnan cradled as he struggled to keep Aramis upright before him.

"Away … must … away," the physician mumbled. "Can…t … 'spose … queen."

"Right, yes. Both of you, away as quickly as possible. Tréville will know what to do. Go." He smacked d'Artagnan's horse on the rump and the pair was away, throwing up turf as the youth took a hedge, clearing it by a hairsbreadth with the double burden. Athos turned to find her majesty already mounted, impatiently reining in her horse who had caught the scent of her anxiety and danced nervously, mouthing at the bit.

The queen was an excellent horsewoman, Athos had no worries in that direction, but he was very concerned that her anxiety would communicate itself to her ladies and start gossip that would spread like wildfire.

"We should wait for His Majesty and travel together back to the palace, Your Majesty."

She calmed immediately at his implacable tone of voice. "Of course," she agreed, breathing deeply. "Of course. Lisette, let us begin a list of things we can send over to the barracks, starting with ice. I believe the seneschal recently told me we received a new shipment. We must ask Létold what can be done under the circumstances. Bandages," she recited, ticking off things on her gloved fingers. "Any medicinals Létold thinks would be helpful…" she trailed off, looking over her shoulder as the king and his retainers, accompanied by the other two Musketeers broke from the forest. "My lord," she greeted her husband as he drew alongside her, his face unusually grave, "we must, of course, do what we can for the poor Musketeer who has been stricken. I have already begun a list. Come let us away, so that Athos and Porthos may be away to their companions as well. I know they will be worried."

"Of course," the king, in turn, echoed the queen, "you are ever a woman of great sensibility, Milady. We shall away immediately, though it is much cooler out here than in the palace," he added petulantly.

"We would not wish to lose any more of the king's most loyal company, would we, Sire?" the queen reminded sweetly, reining her mount around. "Not if we can prevent it."

"You make an excellent point. Let us depart then, though I believe this might just be an excuse to return to our son, eh? Sly minx, I know how much you dislike letting him out of your sight. Come then, we will return and you will send your supplies to the garrison to cover your maternal yearnings."

"And you are ever perceptive, My Lord," the queen replied, giving her horse's flanks a kick so they took off with a leap and were flying across the field within three strides.

Porthos cleared the hedge right next to her, Athos and the king following at a slightly more sedate pace, the courtiers trotting sedately behind.

ttt

Tréville greeted Athos and Porthos in the courtyard, taking their horses. "The arm is nothing, Aramis grabbed a bar and set it himself, I had only to bind it. But he's failing rapidly. I let him go to long. I should have put a stop to his going back out again in the evenings."

"_We_ couldn't even stop 'm, Cap'in," Porthos ground out. "You might have ordered him, but it would have tore him apart to sit around twiddlin' his thumbs when he could be out lending a hand where needed. It was a no win situation, sir." He tossed his reins to the Captain and headed straight for the barracks, leaving Athos to finish the report to Tréville.

"It is true; no amount of cajolery on our part could keep him off the streets. Thank you for sending reinforcements to relieve us, but Porthos and I could have stayed on."

"Somehow I doubt Porthos would find it in his heart to forgive me if something happened to Aramis and he was not here." Tréville collected Athos' reins as well. "If it came to it," he glanced sideways at the man he considered his second-in-command, "neither would you."

"There is likely some truth in that, though without malice aforethought, sir."

"Yes, I understand that, too. d'Artagnan would not allow us to take Aramis to the surgery or the common room." Which, out of necessity, they'd turned into a makeshift infirmary. "They are in d'Artagnan's room; he muttered something about it being the least cluttered as he's had less time to accumulate things."

"Perhaps we should move him to my quarters," Athos considered aloud, trying to think through what such a move would entail.

"Not now, he's in no shape to be moved. What is this?" Tréville asked, looking over his shoulder as a laden wagon came to a stop under the arch.

"The queen, sir. She thought we might be in need of supplies."

"A wagonload?" Tréville eyed the mounded wagon askance.

"Yes, sir, she was …" Athos considered his words carefully, "feeling she had been remiss in not sending supplies when this first hit the garrison. Thus – a wagonload."

"I see." Tréville lifted an eyebrow. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

"No, sir," Athos replied, looking his superior in the eye as he lied without flinching. He could at least make certain the treasonous ax fell on as few as possible if it ever came to light. "d'Artagnan?" he inquired, changing the subject with the surety of a noble well used to politics, though he had never spent time at court as the Comte de la Fere.

"The boy is exhausted, but shows no signs of the illness. I could not pry him from Aramis' side; perhaps he will listen to you."

"Doubtful. But I will make certain he rests."

"Go," the Captain tilted his head toward the barracks. "I know you are as anxious as Porthos."

"Thank you, sir." Athos delayed no further, following in Porthos'

footsteps, taking the stairs two at a time, apprehension driving back his own weariness for the moment.

"Where is he?" Athos snapped, no more had the door opened and closed behind him. They all understood the time line of the illness, not only had Aramis explained it a number of times, they'd witnessed it innumerable times among their own companions.

"Started sweatin' already," Porthos reported, without turning. He was leaning over Aramis, a damp cloth in his hand, blotting at the sweat-dampened hair. "If he follows the others, the heat will begin soon."

Athos slumped back against the door for just a moment before pushing off. "Do you think it would help if we wrapped him in cold sheets?"

In their experience, most of the deaths happened during the heat sequence, as though the sensory systems in the body burnt to a crisp.

Porthos tilted his head consideringly. "Might. Worth a try at least."

"The queen sent ice."

d'Artagnan was up instantly, from where he knelt on the opposite side of the bed from Porthos. "I'll get it, and sheets and water, too."

"Set someone to chipping at that ice block so it can be shared around," Athos called after the departing youth.

"Will do," d'Artagnan returned, already halfway down the stairs.

They knew so little about healing, this might just push the regulatory systems over the edge and cause death by shock. Athos had no idea what the risks were in trying this, but he did know the odds if all they did was sit around and pray; they were no better than fifty fifty.

It appeared neither the Catholics nor the Huguenots were winning the war, both sides were equally decimated.

Besieged, but not without resources, they set to with a will, determined to battle through the siege and win the campaign. Except Porthos fell in the middle of the battle, dropping at d'Artagnan's feet as he brought up a bucket of fresh water.

d'Artagnan didn't even glance up, just rolled Aramis to the side of the bed and wrestled their much larger companion onto the bed as well. It wasn't so small as to require only friends with benefits occupy its configuration, but it was definitely a snug fit for more than one occupant.

"'m sorry," Porthos mumbled, fighting the chills doggedly, attempting to assist as much as he was able through the pain piercing like lances in every extremity.

"Two down," d'Artagnan reported grimly as Aramis brought in a new bucket of ice chips. "Do not dare fail on me too."

Athos made no comment, merely began stripping off Porthos' clothing before throwing a blanket over him. The big man was shivering uncontrollably, teeth clamped against chattering and the moans trying to escape as every limb spasmed with cramps. Aramis lay in a swoon, giving off enough heat he might have cooked an egg if he'd had the strength to hold it between his hands.

"Do you suppose if we rolled them together, they might cancel each other?" d'Artagnan asked wearily, and not entirely facetiously.

"If only." Athos tossed another blanket on the floor. "Neither of us is going to last long enough to see them both through this. Get some rest, I will wake you in an hour or two." He did not say _– if I am still on my feet_ - though the thought crossed his mind.

The youth's accession without argument worried him almost as much as Aramis' high temperature. d'Artagnan did not so much lie down as melt into the floor, pulling the blanket under his cheek as he went down. Athos spread another over top of him, stepped out to retrieve more blankets – the queen's wagon load of supplies had included a secondary supply, thankfully – set another over Porthos and returned to replacing the rapidly drying linens wrapped like bandages around their healer, with new ones dunked in ice water.

Methodically he changed the wrappings, checked Porthos, who advanced rapidly to the sweating stage as well, and began wrapping him in cold clothes too.

Perhaps it was weariness, but with each passing hour - and he did not wake d'Artagnan - an insidious thought began to work its way to the surface. Escape this way would be so very easy. No loss of honor, no regrets. He could lay down the burden that weighed so heavily, with an easy conscience.

The longer he toiled alone, the easier it was to look at the thought directly and consider the consequences. His shoes would not be so hard to fill, it would not be long before d'Artagnan could fill them admirably, and either Aramis or Porthos could easily step into them seamlessly now. He was not so far gone as to fall into the despair of thinking he would not be missed, he knew full well his companions would mourn him as if he had fallen in battle.

But oh it was tempting to linger in the soothing balm of knowing forgetfulness lay upon the threshold. He felt the internal strife as Aramis fought to live, knew Porthos would fight just as hard, as would d'Artagnan if the foulness touched his as well, though the youth might yet escape its clutching clasp.

A hand snaking around his wrist jerked Athos back to the reality of the stinking room.

"Don't go there," Aramis croaked, digging his hot, sweaty fingers into the wrist he grasped with as much strength as he could muster.

"I am going nowhere." Athos pried the fingers lose and bent over his friend, peeling back first one eyelid, then the other, as he'd seen Aramis do with his patients. "Does this mean you have turned the corner? What am I looking for?"

"Pupils … normal. Dot … center of … eye."

"I am acquainted with pupils," Athos replied, the merest hint of humor coloring his words. "Yours appear to be returning to normal, though they are still a little engoged."

"Worst … think the worst … is past. Porthos? The puppy?"

"d'Artagnan is sleeping, Porthos has reached the sweating stage."

"He'll be … fine."

"Yes, he will. Now stop talking, you are not yet strong enough to prattle like this." Athos laid a finger across the still hot, dry, and cracking lips.

Aramis struggled to free his uninjured arm from the wrappings. "Where's my … bag?"

Athos turned so he could search the small room. "Shelf in the armoire. Why?"

"Oint…ment," Aramis reached to touch Porthos huddled beneath a pile of blankets. "Constitution … of a… horse."

Athos rose to retrieve the bag, returned and sat down to rummage for the pot of salve he'd watched Aramis apply to the lips of a number of his patients as well. "Fortunately, _you_ are blessed with the constitution of an ox." He opened the jar, stabbed a finger inside and applied the salve with a sensitivity usually reserved for their puppy.

Aramis sighed and closed his eyes, grateful for that small bit of relief. "We'll be alright."

Athos did not respond. Porthos flailed an arm over the side of the bed, smacking d'Artagnan, who came fluidly to his knees, only waking fully as his hands encountered the cool clothes hobbling Porthos.

Dawn was breaking, the first faint flush of color painting the piece of sky visible through the window. It would not be long before the lesser heat of the night gave way to the scorching blaze of day.

"Why didn't you wake me?" d'Artagnan clambered to his feet, rubbing bleary eyes. He read the answer in the raised eyebrow directed at him. "Right. Allow me to return the favor. There are empty beds everywhere, go find one."

Athos turned back to his task. "I will have plenty of time to rest shortly, I am sure."

d'Artagnan made no effort to keep the plaintive note from his voice as he plunked himself down on the edge of the bed beside Porthos. "Here I thought I'd finally earned your trust." He did not wait for an answer, mostly because he was purposely baiting his elder. "How are they?" The youth turned a pensive gaze on Athos, thoroughly inspecting the haggard features in the soft light of the new dawn. "And you? You do not look well at all."

"Do not be ridiculous. This has nothing to do with trust; I am beyond the capacity for rest. It is only a matter of time before this strikes me as well, until then, I will do what I can for the others. We could use some more ice and I would appreciate it if you would check on Tréville. Aramis may be interested in food in a bit as well, if Serge is still on his feet."

d'Artagnan bent over to check on Porthos, muttering under his breath. Athos ignored him, though he sighed again, as the youth closed the door quietly behind himself a very few moments later.

Aramis opened his eyes again. "He only wants … to do his part. You … you need to let him."

Athos turned his _Comte_ look on their healer. "Already anxiety begins to oppress my mind. It will not be long before he has all of us on his hands. And you are not to rise from your sick bed to assist him."

Aramis' irrepressible grin was more like a ghost of its usual quick flash, but it made a brief appearance. "There is not room for three of us in this bed."

"I will occupy the pallet d'Artagnan has vacated on the floor."

Aramis' lips twitched, but he said nothing. They would see who won that battle when the time came. He drifted back off to sleep, unaware that Athos continued to change out the cold linens, though with longer and longer between changes.

d'Artagnan returned with a new bucket of ice and a tray wafting the inviting scent of warm buns drenched in honey. He set the tray in the armoire and went to work silently exchanging Porthos' sweat-soaked wrappings for the set waiting in the bucket of melted ice water.

He was there still an hour later, when Athos' fingers quit working. d'Artagnan was around the end of the bed faster than a cat could lick it's whiskers, reaching to support him as he tried to stand and his knees buckled beneath him.

"Floor," Athos ordered blearily. "Just help me to the floor."

Aramis, who had woken with the sudden commotion, though there had been little noise, slid over the edge of the bed and crawled, one-armed, around to the blankets still on the floor where d'Artagnan had left them. He dropped like a stone. "I will be up soon to lend a hand," he stated firmly, though the hoarseness of his voice somewhat undermined the authority.

"Right," d'Artagnan agreed acerbically. "In case you've missed it, friend, you're barely this side of the grave," adding as he covered Athos with a blanket and tucked it in securely. "Not that I'm not thankful for your Lazarus impression."

Aramis adjusted the blanket rolled up for a pillow under his neck. "Don't allow Athos to take the easy way out," he said cryptically. "Keep him cool, and make him drink. Porthos should be turning the corner shortly. Let him sleep. Wake me if necessary." Between one shallow breath and the next he slipped into a deep, recuperative sleep himself.

Athos' condition deteriorated so quickly, it did not take long for Aramis' words to acquire meaning. d'Artagnan could not hear the siren song luring the Comte de le Fere, but he sensed its silken threads weaving like a spider web around the Musketeer.

He was on his own for only the second time since leaving home and while he was not standing with a dagger in his hand in the door of a dead man's room, he understood that fate held a dagger that could severe the ties that bound a tortured soul to this mortal coil. If he could not turn it aside, he would lose a friend who, in a very short time, had become crucial to his own well being.

He could not follow to untangle those threads, nor wield a physical sword that would slice through the thickening cocoon. d'Artagnan felt his lack of experience like a blade to his own heart. What had Aramis said – and had it just been this morning? Neither audacity nor charm would get him through this ordeal.

Porthos woke to a droning monologue that at any other time would have amused him no end, now it just irritated him. He swatted an arm at the endless stream of sound pouring into his sore ears and aching head.

"Shhhhhhup," he slurred on a heavy sigh, shifting in an attempt to find a comfortable position, only to find the bed occupied by a too-warm body. "G'way." The droning increased in volume before fading away as he drifted back to sleep, unaware that his brief foray into consciousness had relived their youthful compatriot no end.

d'Artagnan's hands kept up the mundane tasks he had set them to long after his mind shut down, massaging knotted and cramped muscles, soothing, changing out cooling wraps until his hands were chapped from the water and his jaw aching from so many words. But the words continued too, long after thought ceased.

Aramis woke to that nearly incoherent string of mumbled words around sunset. He sat up, yawning as he scrubbed his face, wondering why he'd woken on the floor and why, for heaven's sake, every muscle in his body protested the slightest movement. He sat for a bit, head in his hands, then finally shook off the plaguey lethargy, raising his head to look for the source of that annoying buzzing.

"God," Porthos put a hand to his head, as he too woke. "That was the worst nightmare ever. What the hell is that noise?"

Aramis propped his good arm on the bed and laid his heavy head on it. "At least one of them is still breathing."

At some point during the long afternoon, d'Artagnan had lost the battle with his equilibrium. He was sprawled half on and half off the bed, his right arm flung across Athos' chest, fingers entwined in the cloth over the elder Musketeer's heart.

Porthos flung an arm out, smacking Aramis. "One still yammerin'. Mus' be th' pu'py. At'os?"

"Ow. Yes, it is d'Artagnan mumbling," Aramis observed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Headache?"

"Worst 'angover evah," Porthos grumbled. "Or di' som'body 'it me again?"

"No, we've all been sick," Aramis reminded, shoving at the hand that now rested on his head.

"Oh yeah. Sick," Porthos echoed, holding his head on with the hand Aramis had shoved off as he heaved himself up so he could lean against the headboard. "Sick," he repeated. "Sure feels like I got kicked in the head."

"I can relate," Aramis murmured assent. "Check Athos. Is he breathing?"

"Can't get the puppy off 'em." Porthos heaved at the back of d'Artagnan's shirt, to no avail. "'e's making m' teeth hurt with all that noise, but I'm not sure 'e even knows 'es makin' it." When strength failed, he reached around the mumbling youth. "Athos?" He found a pulse at the juncture of jaw and throat. "'earts beatin' still," he reported.

"Good." Aramis shoved off the bed, but no further than the bed roll he'd just tried to abandon. "Any idea…" God, he was tired, thoughts floated away before he could get them out of his head and off his tongue. A head shake only made it worse and he gave up trying to rise just for the moment. "Athos – still hot?"

"Feels like, though not so hot he's burnin' up with it anymore."

"Pour some water down his throat if you can. I'll get it if you can't, don't worry." Aramis made an effort to relax the stupid taunting muscles flexed to capacity but unable to keep him upright. "I'll just be a minute or two more, then I need you to move down here so I can get d'Artagnan into the bed. Is _he_ hot yet?"

"Not so much. If I had the strength, I'd knock 'em out, though, just to shut him up."

Aramis was quiet for a several heartbeats before observing softly. "He may well have been the link that kept Athos among us. You've seen the toll this has taken on our _comte_."

Porthos grimaced. "Yer thinkin' he might have taken the easy way out?"

"Nobleman are funny that way. I'm thinking if this had happened before d'Artagnan joined us…" Aramis let the thought trail off. Porthos wouldn't need it spelled out.

"Well ain't that just fine and dandy. What are we? Boiled potatoes?"

Aramis smiled and felt renewed strength creeping back with the bit of humor. "Hungy? I vaguely remember d'Artagnan bringing up rolls several hours ago. Or maybe that was yesterday. Don't know where they got to, but a minute more and I'll hunt for them if you like."

"Always hungry," Porthos admitted, yawning. "Aramis?"

"Hmmm?"

"Just … I might be still be under the shadow of tomorrow, too, ya know, if you weren't around."

Aramis sat up, realizing for the first time he was wearing only his birthday suit. "Likewise my friend." He let a pregnant silence fill the room as they both contemplated a realm without their boon companions, then broke it in inimitable style. "I don't suppose you remember where our clothes got to?"

"Dunno." Porthos opened his eyes, moving his entire head to scan the room, since it hurt like hot pokers to move his eyeballs. "Wait, maybe the armoire. Looks like couple a shirts at least."

"Good. Another minute and I'll be good to go."

"Say when, m'legs are like noodles, but I'll get down there if I havta roll meself."

Another twenty minutes passed before Aramis scraped together enough energy to attempt rising again. He abandoned the blanket after the second attempt to wrap it around his middle. The losing battle was eating up too much of his meager energy. The armoire yielded up clean shirt and britches, and he sat heavily on the foot of the bed in the space Porthos had gruntingly vacated, to pull them on. He would have liked to bathe before dressing, but they were at least another day from being done with this and such niceties would have to wait.

"You gonna be okay down there? I think the room on the right is empty, you could sleep in that bed."

"Nah, I'm good." Porthos stretched aching limbs like he hadn't been able to do in the bed with a companion. "How long 'fore we'll be be'ter?"

Aramis rose again and moved around the bed to bend over their puppy. "Come on," he shook the youth slightly, eliciting a groan, though the mumbling recommenced immediately. "d'Artagnan!" He did not shake him again, vague memories of his own experience with this first awful stage of the illness reminding him to be gentle. "Feet." He shuffled the Gascon's feet together with his own foot, keeping hold of the collar he'd grasped in order to pull d'Artagnan off Athos. "Good job. Now – UP!" He hefted with what strength he had, and d'Artagnan, still coherent enough to know he was being prodded to stand, struggled to his feet.

'Aramis," he said, by way of greeting, and stumbled the few steps necessary to slump against the wall. "You look like …" he swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and tried again. "Y' look like Athos after a … bender." Which reminded him. He pushed off the wall to drop to his knees beside the bed, grabbing Athos by the shoulders. "Don't you dare die on me!" he commanded, and slumped again over the Musketeer.

"Damn," Aramis muttered. "Should have shoved him across the bed while he was still on his feet." He felt muscles twitch painfully beneath his hand and knew indeed, that their youthful companion was just at the beginning of the worst of it. "d'Artagnan," he murmured, "you've done enough. It's your turn to rest now. Come, sit up, I can't do this without your help."

"Have to stay."

d'Artagnan's hoarse whisper must have reached Athos on some level, for a hand was lifted slightly. With clearly monumental effort it brushed lightly over the dark head still lying on his chest before falling back to the mattress.

"Still here," Athos' dredged up from the depths of his fevered dreams, where a will far stronger than his own kept him tethered to this world when he would have gladly allowed the darkness to swallow him up.

"d'Artgagnan," Aramis said again, attempting cajolery where sheer strength was really required. "Come, sit up. Only help a little and we will have you lying down as well."

"Must stay. You must stay!" The cry was heartrending even muffled as it was in Athos' chest. Aramis tried tugging – to no avail. He gave up and scooted back to lean against the wall while he reevaluated. "Maybe I can just swing the rest of him up on the bed, then roll him over."

"Gimme a minute," Porthos echoed his friend's mantra, "an I'll … help."

"No, don't try to get up. It's … an experience," Aramis panted, as he struggled to lift d'Artagnan's legs onto the bed. "Not a good one." He was light-headed and dizzy and if either of his friends woke while he was attempting this maneuver, there would be hell to pay … or – a knock and the door opened - anyone entered the room.

"Captain." Aramis breathed a sigh of relief when Treville' appeared on the threshhold. "You're still on your feet."

"You, on the other hand, look like you should not be. Here let me." Tréville scooped up the slender youth with ease. "It's a bit crowded in here. How 'bout if I put him-"

"No!" Aramis and Porthos said together.

"No," Aramis repeated.

Tréville didn't bother to argue. "All right then, but there's no room to tend to him if I put him on the other side of Athos, so roll Athos to the other side of the bed."

"Good idea," Aramis agreed, though actually accomplishing the deed required the last of the energy he'd managed to conjure by force of will alone.

As soon as there was space enough, Tréville laid d'Artagnan in the spot and reached over him to help settle Athos.

"I will send someone-" the captain began, only to be cut off again.

"My thanks, but we'll manage. Porthos and I are through the worst of it. He'll be on his feet in no time and we'll take turns. Athos is past the critical point, as well."

"d'Artagnan?" Treville brushed back already sweat-dampened dark hair to lay a large palm over the hot forehead. "Not hot enough to be very far into this yet."

d'Artagnan pushed at it fretfully.

"He's had the care of all of us, sir. And he was already exhausted going into this. But he'll be fine. He is not so far removed from childhood, nor has he lived as hard as some of the rest of us. The illness will likely deal more gently with him." Aramis considered the small lie nullified by the relief he glimpsed in the captain's eyes.

He thought the opposite rather. d'Artagnan was burnt down to wick, he had used up any reserves he had managed to hoard away battling the beast for each of them in turn, watching over them, keeping them all grounded, though he had poured out his soul for Athos.

Captain Tréville planted a fist on the bed between Athos and d'Artagnan and leaned over to inspect Porthos. "Mmmm, you don't look as if you'll be on your feet anytime soon."

"We'll manage," Aramis repeated, though he was slumped over the legs of the pair in the bed, making every effort not to pant. He flicked the blanket back over Athos, hoping to underscore his ability to cope, even half lying down and lifted himself enough to tuck it around the bare feet hanging out the bottom.

"An I will be, on my feet that is, sir, if I haveta crawl around the furnishings."

Tréville just shook his head. "Fine. I'll send one of the boys up with some more ice, it's been a godsend. We lost two more men, but I think the rest pulled through because of it."

"Haveta remember to tell the queen," Porthos said.

"And thank her," Aramis agreed. "Make everyone drink as much as they can, sir, water would be best, but anything wet will keep the body moist. There is beginning to be some thought that water cleanses both inside and out. Flushing the humors can only be a good thing."

"I will pass that along. You have only to open the door and yell if you need help. And do not be too stubborn to ask for it, Aramis."

"Yes, sir." Aramis touched his left hand to his heart, where normally he would have placed his right hand and hat in deference to the command. "I will endeavor to beat down the stubbornness, sir."

Tréville's lips twitched in a rueful smile. "Good man. I knew I could count on you." He turned to go, but stopped with his hand on the latch, though he kept his face to the door. "I am glad to find you all alive. I have been needlessly dreading making the trek up here for fear of what I would find."

"Never fear, sir," Porthos grunted. "You would have heard the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth if we'd lost one of our own, though it's sorry I am not to be on my feet makin' that report."

At this, the Captain turned his head, the rueful smile blossoming into a grin. "Thank you for the reminder, Porthos; should have thought of that myself. Aramis, you should get that arm in a sling."

"Uh, yes sir. I'll do that." Just as soon as he could lie down again. If he could find it. He had a very clear memory of setting the broken arm, it had hurt like being trampled by wild horses, so he knew there was a makeshift sling lying about somewhere, probably buried in the bed clothes or beneath the blankets on the floor. He did not remember when he'd lost it.

The door closed very gently and Aramis slumped completely over the foot of the bed. "In a minute I'll get d'Artagnan out of his clothes. Can you believe it? He's still wearing his boots."

From his supine position on the foor, Porthos voice was tinged with a bit of awe. "We're alive," he said, wonderingly. "And not like to die now, are we? I'd have thought, with my sins, the devil woulda been waitin' on the doorstep."

"No, no one's going to die. Based on the progress of others I've observed, a day or two of rest and we'll be up and around again. A seven-day past we'll hardly remember we were even sick."

"A seven-day!" Porthos huffed, unsuccessfully attempting to raise his head. Aramis had been known to pull his leg a time or three. "Yer jokin', right?"

"I wish I were, my friend. I wish I were."

When Aramis woke again, it was full dark, the moon's silvered shadows playing hide and seek about the room, now brightening a patch of floor, now hiding the blue cloak hanging inside the armoire. He woke because d'Artagnan had turned on his side, jerking his feet from beneath Aramis as the fiery darts of pain began playing havoc with every muscle, tendon and joint in his body.

He had curled into a ball of shivering misery by the time Aramis made his slow and careful way to the head of the bed again.

Prying away knuckles bloody with teeth marks, Aramis sank to his knees by the side of the bed. Gliding moonlight briefly gilded the thin face, reflecting in the dark eyes narrowed against the phantom jolts of bodily lightening strikes.

"This does not last long," Aramis whispered, stroking back the long hair with his free hand, "And the rest is not so bad, I promise."

"Watched … you … all," d'Artagnan panted from between teeth clenched tight. "Candle burnt down three marks … before it … loosed Porthos." He grunted, as though hit with a body blow. "No stranger … to pain … won't … kill me."

"No," Aramis' smile was gentle and approving, "you've proven yourself fairly indestructible, youngling. Try not to tense up, it only makes it worse. Let it roll through you and over you as you would roll with a punch. That's it … good," he praised softly, as the youth made a concerted effort to relax muscles tensed in anticipation. "Now breathe, slowly and as deeply as you can. Better, yes?"

"How is Athos?" d'Artagnan queried, as soon as a respite allowed.

"Sleeping comfortably now that you've ceased your yammering. As is Porthos." Aramis propped the broken arm across his thighs and reached to take the abused fingers of the hand lying on the pillow. "You did a good thing, anchoring Athos as you did. How did you know to keep talking?"

"Didn't." d'Artagnan convulsed, shoulders hunching around a sharp intense anguish that shot through his chest as though pierced by a blade. "Oh God!" the cry was wrenched from him though he very nearly bit through his lip in an effort to stifle it. "Just knew …" he sucked in air, wheezing with the effort to drawn breath against the tension stretching muscle and sinew at every joint, "had to try and stop him from drifting away."

Aramis breathed a silent prayer of supplication even as he stroked back the hair again. "You did good," he repeated quietly, "it worked. Athos will be fine. Come on, breathe with me now. In … and out. In … and out. That's it, that good … see, it works… in … and out."

"Wha's goin' on now?" Porthos rolled into Athos' bare foot, Athos having turned on his side as well, and kicked the tucked-under blanket free. "You prayin' or somp'in? Can't catch a moment's peace around here."

"Go back to sleep."

Porthos needed no such instruction, having already nodded off again, though only lightly, for he began to snore.

This drew a half-strangled laugh from the last patient, who had strength enough yet to snatch back his hand and stuff his knuckles back in his mouth, so blood began to trickle from the corner. Aramis did not try to wrestle the fist down a second time. Instead, he maneuvered his exhausted body into a seated position and used the bed frame to prop himself so he could lay his heavy head on the mattress next to d'Artagnan.

Aramis' internal clock informed him it was well after midnight when the tide finally turned and the painful spasms eased. d'Artagnan had long since fallen into a dazed stupor from which he roused, slightly, only when Aramis began forcing him to drink every few minutes, and then when the cold compresses packed against his overheated skin were changed out.

Around the hour of the third vigil, Porthos woke again, with enough strength to take Aramis' place. And d'Artagnan passed into the delirium stage. He woke again and again, parched, drank deeply of the cold water Porthos tottered down the stairs to fetch up to their sick room, and fell back in a swoon again as soon as his thirst was quenched.

Sometime between that third hour of deep night and dawn, Athos woke again, enough to drape an arm over d'Artagnan, whose tossing became less violent and gradually gave way to a light doze. Porthos heaved a great sigh of relief, drew covers back over the sleepers and settled himself on the floor again in d'Artagnan's nest of blankets.

Tréville, stopping by for the sixth or eighth, or perhaps tenth time – he'd lost count of how many times he'd circled the garrison in the last forty-eight hours – echoed Porthos' sigh of relief, though he did not know it, as the sound of rain began to patter down on the roof, underscoring a chorus of snores here in this room.

He stood a moment upon the threshold, sending up his own prayers of thanksgiving, then moved into the room to tuck in blankets here and there, touch a forehead lightly, and just reassure himself that this quartet of warriors was indeed on the road to recovery. He glanced back over his shoulder as he was about to close the door and saw Athos had woken.

Tréville inclined his head respectfully. "Sleep well, my friend. Your flock has been well tended."

Athos lifted a hand in acknowledgement and Tréville took himself off to his own bed, his faith restored in an almighty God who looked with favor upon Catholic and Protestant alike and sent rain equally on the just and the unjust.

~ttt~

_This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. All characters and settings are the property of BBC America, their successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._


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